


These words are written on my soul

by Zoadgo



Series: Merry Ficmas! [2]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/M, Mentions of Past Torture, Soulmate AU, first words tattoos, some canon events
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-21
Updated: 2015-12-21
Packaged: 2018-05-08 06:16:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,568
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5486684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zoadgo/pseuds/Zoadgo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first words that Murphy will ever hear his soulmate say, marked on his skin like everyone else has their own, are nonsense. No language spoken on the Ark, a cosmic glitch. At least that’s what he thinks until he gets sent to the ground, and reality is even worse, because he hears similar words spoken by the people who seem to take great pleasure in hurting him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	These words are written on my soul

Soulmates are the worst joke the universe has ever played on mankind, Murphy is sure of it. Oh, of course as a kid he bought into the bullshit about “other halves” and “fulfillment”, what kid didn’t dream of having the beautiful partnership their parents did? But when his words had finally shown up, markings forming on his skin one night as he slept, it had been the first blow that had sent spiderweb cracks through that perfect image.

The words are supposed to be clear, lovely script looking like an old scar, spelling out the first phrase that you’ll hear your soulmate say. Childhood friends fall into relationships because they have words that their parents remember them dribbling out as infants marked into their skin, other people wait patiently for fate to line up for them. For Murphy, however, he never had a hope of it.

His words are smudged onto his shoulder blade, impossible for him to see without a mirror, and no one knows what they say. They aren’t even actually words, just sounds written out in a collection of messy letters. The day his parents read them off of his shoulder was the first time he saw them as anything other than happy or perfectly composed.

_Ge bak yu op o ai frag yu op._

Not a language spoken on the Ark, and as such, an impossibility. Some people never get their words, their soulmate dead by the time the universe figures it out, or never having existed in the first place. He’d never thought, as a little kid, that he would envy them, but having to hide the confusing truth of his situation makes him wish it was as simple as having no words for him.

But even with just that, the system being broken for him, Murphy might not have hated soulmates as much as he does. But he saw, in the way that the loss of his father broke his mother, that soulmates are dangerous. Your soulmate is your other half, it’s taught to them time and time again, and it doesn’t occur to most people how fucked up that really is. But Murphy sees it in the hollow stares of adults with blank skin, in his mother’s obsession with moonshine, in his own hatred for the marking on his shoulder. People should be whole on their own, not absent of something crucial until they meet another piece of their personal puzzle.

Even though Murphy hates and resents the fact that soulmates exists and thinks it’s ridiculous that people are seen as less absent of their partner, it doesn’t change the truth of the situation. He falls into crime after his mother dies, disillusioned with the world and seeing no future for himself with his pointless markings. He gets caught fairly quickly, he apparently inherited his father’s talent for sneaking, and Murphy doesn’t care. He’s fine with spending years in jail until he gets floated when he’s 18.

As the day ticks closer, Murphy doesn’t care. A few more months of pointless living, and then he’ll be gone, a mystery left to float through the cold vacuum of space. The passage of time doesn’t really matter to him, and Murphy doesn’t even try to find something else to enjoy in life. And then, just when he thinks he might have an out in the form of his own floating, things change. The prisoners are sent to Earth, a last ditch attempt by a desperate society, but for the teenage delinquents, it’s a second chance.

Murphy takes it as such, the dropship tearing through the atmosphere of the alien planet that he has been taught is “home” jarring him into wakefulness. Perhaps he doesn’t need a soulmate, this is Earth, maybe the rules are different here. So Murphy fights and makes a name for himself, enjoying the thrill of power and feeling a twisted sort of joy, which is enough for him. But the name he makes is not a good one, and so when blame for a murder has to fall on someone, Murphy’s not really all that surprised it falls on him.

Emotions, once awakened, do not tend to sleep quietly, and Murphy makes everything worse for himself. A cancelled execution becomes an exile, and he knows he’ll likely die in the forest. Injured, alone, with only a scrap of metal as a weapon, Murphy knows his chances are slim. He expects the Grounders, an unknown force seemingly intent on killing the delinquents, to kill him quickly. He does not expect to become their captive, their plaything and source of information.

The torture was bad, but worse than the tearing of his flesh and deprivation of basic human needs is the words he hears passed between his captors. He doesn’t know them, but he feels he knows the language. The harsh stops, short words and cadence that seems like it would fit the letters on his shoulder far better than any pronunciation he’d ever tried. Murphy throws up the first night he hears the words “Ge bak yu op” shouted outside of his cage, terrified of the concept that one of these monsters could be his soulmate. 

But the final part of the phrase doesn’t come, which isn’t much of a relief for Murphy. Even if his soulmate isn’t one of _these_ Grounders, they’re a Grounder, and how can he possibly be expected to be completed by someone like this? What a cruel fucking joke by the cosmos, that he should be terrified of the very concept of his soulmate.

When his cage is left open one day, Murphy doesn’t think twice about running, the fear that he’ll hear the whole phrase eating away at him like the blades of the Grounders carving his skin. Even when he gets back to camp, in his mind, Murphy is still running. They’re waging war, and he can’t face the Grounders again, not on the field of battle or any other time. His plan was to escape on the eve of the battle and hope the two forces wipe each other out, but he has to run early and is shortly captured again.

It’s no surprise, after he finds his way free and back to the fallen Ark, and the Arkers ally themselves with the Grounders, that Murphy takes the chance to keep fleeing. Following Jaha is an easy choice, because Murphy doesn’t want to hear his words. He spent his adolescence hating the fact that he’d never hear the phrase marked on his skin read aloud by the person it’s intended for, but now he fears that he will.

The Dead Zone lives up to its name, devoid of life, although Jaha swears there’s an exiled Grounder living there with her child and his father. When Murphy hears the story of the woman, fleeing to save her child from the laws of the Grounder tribes, some of the fear in his soul eases. Perhaps someone like that, he might be able to tolerate. A Grounder who doesn’t believe in the ways, doesn’t support the people who tore Murphy’s fingernails off. He still vaguely hopes that he doesn’t meet the person, but he no longer has nightmares about finding his soulmate.

The days seem impossibly long in the desert, but Murphy follows Jaha without question or complaint. Not all of their group does so, and Murphy has to spend a fair amount of energy restraining himself, but he does not want Jaha to send him back to camp, back to the forest that haunts him. So Murphy bites his tongue as another person complains about the heat for the eightieth time that day as they crest a hill of sand, the last hill separating them from Sienna’s camp, according to Jaha.

There is no tent in the valley revealed to them, but there is cart, and the group approaches it without thinking. Perhaps there are supplies there, left behind by an unlucky or unwise traveller. Murphy isn’t above a little bit of theft, and given that they weren’t actually authorized to take any of the gear that they have, he doubts anyone else in the group would hesitate to loot the cart for all it holds.

And then there’s movement from it, and a figure leaps out, knife drawn, and Murphy’s heart contracts at the words she shouts.

“Ge bak yu op o ai frag yu op!”

Murphy can’t help but stare at her as Jaha says words that don’t even register to Murphy. It’s possible that she’s not his soulmate, some people have mundane words on them that they’ll hear multiple times before they ever meet their other half. But Murphy’s words aren’t mundane, and if there’s any Grounder he could ever care for, it’s a denizen of the Dead Zone, an exiled nomad clinging to survival above all else.

Jaha telling Murphy to give her some water barely breaks him out of his reverie, but Murphy doesn’t hesitate to do so. One of their group, however, one with the most complaints grabs Murphy’s arm.

“Woah, woah, no, no, no, no, we barely have enough for ourselves here.”

God, Murphy wants to punch him, but he knows Jaha would disapprove, and he also doesn’t want that to necessarily be the first thing his potential soulmate sees him do. Instead, he simply throws off the man’s arm.

“Touch me again and I’ll end you,” Murphy turns away, but at Jaha’s look turns back with a smile and adds, “in a non-criminal way.”

Murphy wonders, as he walks over to the woman and hands her his canteen, if those are the words she has on her body somewhere. He’s then struck by a thought that never occurred to him before. Do Grounders have soulmates? He’d never really had reason to wonder before, but he knows that one sided bonding is a thing. People doomed to unrequited love, forced to be content watching their soulmate bond with someone else because even if they can’t be with them, it’s better to be around them. He hopes Grounders have soulmates, and he hopes that if the woman is his, he’s hers as well.

“We’re on our way to the City of Light as well. What’s your name?” Jaha questions as the woman finishes drinking from Murphy’s rations, not wasting a drop.

“Emori,” Murphy swears something in him responds to her name, a feeling akin to working a kink out of your neck, “Everyone in the Dead Zone is looking for the City of Light. Almost no one finds it. I can get you there, if you pull my cart.”

“Done,” Jaha makes the decision in a heartbeat, and Murphy is glad, “Caspien, you’re on the first shift!”

The man who’d tried to stop Murphy from giving Emori water grumbles and heads over to the cart, and Murphy is thoroughly pleased and smiling now. Emori hands him back his canteen with a small smile.

“Thanks for the water.”

“It’s, uh, it was- It’s no problem,” Murphy fumbles over his words as he stuffs the sloshing canister back into his bag, and curses himself mentally for it. But Emori smiles more as she turns towards the crew pulling her cart, and Murphy decides it’s worth looking like a fool for that.

There’s no question about it to him. Even if he’s not her soulmate, if Grounders don’t have that or if she has someone else’s words on her skin, she’s his other half. It’s the only explanation for why he doesn’t fear her in the slightest, for why her smile meant so much to him, and he doesn’t resent her for drinking his water. Murphy wants to be with her, wants to spend time with her and make her smile more.

He jogs to catch up with her as she walks up, falling in step beside Jaha and giving him a few directions, just enough for the next few miles or so. Caspien and some of the others get the cart rolling in their wake, and Jaha thanks Emori for her help, a sentiment she echos. It’s then that Murphy falls into pace next to her, and Jaha separates himself from them with a nod to Murphy. Murphy realizes, once he’s walking next to Emori with her attention on him, that he has no idea what to say to his potential soulmate. Surely it should be easy, right?

“What’s your name?” Emori saves Murphy from the most awkward silence of his life with a question, and Murphy thanks gods that he doesn’t believe in for that.

“Murphy. John Murphy, actually, but everyone calls me Murphy.” Once again, he mentally chides himself for rambling. Emori doesn’t seem to mind, she simply cocks her head at him slightly, curiously.

“Which do you prefer?” It’s a simple question, but one that honestly stumps Murphy. He’s never had anyone ask him which of his names he likes better, mostly everyone just calls him Murphy, save for Jaha and his long dead parents. In prison they were all last names and numbers, it’s what he’s used to.

“I guess I’m more used to Murphy.” But surely, if there should be an exception for what he’s used to, it would be Emori. “You can call me John, though, I guess. Fewer people hate John than Murphy.”

“Why do they hate you?” Emori doesn’t seem to judge him over his self deprecating joke, and Murphy smiles at her.

“Surely we should keep some air of mystery about ourselves,” Murphy says in a light tone, and Emori smiles in response.

“Perhaps we should,” Emori agrees with him, and Murphy's pleased that she’s not suspicious, at least not overtly so. Had he said something like that around anyone from the camp, they’d be digging at him for details incessantly. He’ll tell her some day about his past, but not until he knows if she has his words on her. No point scaring her away.

“So, you live out here?” Murphy gestures gestures to the sand in front of him with a jut of his chin.

“Yes, it is… Not an easy life.” Emori’s hesitation speaks volumes of the harshness of the experience, and Murphy has no trouble believing her. People rarely use hyperbole when speaking of true horrors.

“How long have you been out here? And why?” Murphy doesn’t know what he hopes to gain from this line of questioning, save for more time talking with Emori. Perhaps some part of him wants her reason for leaving her people to be over their treatment of prisoners, or in order to find her soulmate, or something like that.

“Since I was a child, my brother and I grew up in the Dead Zone. As for why, perhaps that will be my mystery,” Emori’s tone is teasing and Murphy huffs a small laugh.

“Turning my own logic against me, that’s cruel,” Murphy mock accuses her, and Emori simply shrugs with a smile. He decides to ask a more direct question, then, since he’s not willing to part with his secret to hear hers just yet, “There is something about Grounders that I’m curious about, are you willing to spill the secrets of your people to me?”

“I have no loyalty to the kru, ask away,” Emori’s answer resonates with Murphy. He had no loyalty to his people either, hasn’t ever really known a reason to be loyal before.

“Do Grounders have soulmates?” Emori raises an eyebrow at him, questioningly, and he rephrases, thinking perhaps they call it something different, “Like, when you’re a kid, one day words show up on your skin, and they’re the first words you hear the person you’re destined to love say.”

It’s less love and more obsession as Murphy understands it, but he’s relatively proud of the way he phrases it. Understanding dawns on Emori’s face, and Murphy’s hopes soar.

“We do, although often they’re illegible. Trigedasleng is not a written language.” Murphy knows the truth in that, in the smudged quality of his words.

“Are yours legible?” It’s overly personal to ask someone what their words are, but Murphy has to know.

Emori doesn’t answer right away, she simply looks at Murphy for a moment as if reading his soul, and Murphy accepts it. His soul is hers to study, by the phrase on his back.

“What are your words, John Murphy?” Her tone is inquisitive, not accusatory, and Murphy knows he probably shouldn’t show her without knowing if she has his words on her, but he can’t help it.

They slow their pace slightly and allow the group to pass them, and then Murphy unzips his jacket and allows it to slide down his arms, gathering in the crooks of his elbows. He reaches his left hand up and pulls at the right hand side of the collar of his shirt, the fabric old and loose enough that it gives with very little resistance. He feels Emori’s hand touch his back, pulling the shirt slightly so she can see his words better, and he suppresses a shiver at the contact.

“Do you know what this means?” Murphy doesn’t know if Emori’s question is about the literal translation of the words, or the greater implications of them, but he shakes his in response. She doesn’t elaborate, but she releases his shirt, and Murphy shrugs his jacket back into place.

Emori’s expression seems conflicted when Murphy turns to look at her again, and he feels the bottom drop out of his stomach. Maybe she doesn’t have his words on her, maybe she’s weirded out knowing that she’s his cosmic other half. She seems to debate something for a moment that feels far too long for Murphy, but then she looks up at him.

“Tell me why people hate you. No more mysteries,” Emori’s voice is firm, and Murphy hopes he hasn’t fucked up his chances of being near her by being honest.

“I killed two people.”

Emori nods thoughtfully at that, and then she begins removing the wrappings around her left hand, something Murphy had vaguely noticed but not really put much thought to. 

“My brother stole me away from my people because he knew that they would never allow me to live. I’m a stain on the bloodline, something to be erased,” Emori keeps her gaze on Murphy as she says this, revealing her hand.

It’s warped, the fingers fused together, joints and flesh inflated and distorted. It looks painful more than anything, but Murphy doesn’t see what’s so wrong about it.

“Badass hand,” Murphy says, drawing a small chuckle from Emori. He looks up at her as she shakes her head slightly before turning her hand over and revealing another detail of her hand, words climbing up her wrist in clarity.

_Touch me again and I’ll end you._

The script is neat, even, and unmistakably his words. Murphy had feared, and then hoped for this, and then dreaded that it might not happen. But now that they know they’re each other’s soulmates, he doesn’t exactly know what to do. Emori covers her hand again, and Murphy finds himself missing the sight of it.

Murphy’s about to say something when he hears Jaha calling them to take their shift on the cart, and then there’s no chance to talk about it in any semblance of privacy. Although he burns to ask Emori questions about everything, he doesn’t want to air his potential relationship to the whole group, so Murphy settles for simply glancing up at her every once in awhile. Sometimes he catches her looking at him, and they both smile, and Murphy can’t remember the last time he felt this happy. For once, things turned out right for him.

Their shift on the cart is long, or should be, but they round a sand dune about a half hour into it, and there’s a man on a horse on the other side, aiming a large gun down at them and shouting orders. Before Murphy even has a chance to react, as Jaha, Emori, and him drop the cart, he finds himself pulled backwards, away from the group with a knife to his throat.

“I’m sorry, John, but there are things more important than soulmates,” Emori whispers in his ear before shouting demands to his group.

Murphy watches Jaha protest their demands, then comply and attempt to reason with them. He feels nothing for the group, so easily swayed by threats. Isn’t that why they all fled, anyway, threat of war driving them to seek an easier life? At least Murphy would have fought to keep their supplies, if he didn’t have a knife to his throat.

“Take me with you,” Murphy whispers to Emori as Jaha attempts to talk to horseman down.

“What?” Emori’s whispered response is harsh and incredulous.

“Surviving is more important than soulmates? Fine, I’ll help you survive.”

“What about your people?”

“I have no loyalty to them,” Murphy echoes Emori’s earlier words, and she drags him further backwards, towards the horse as the man astride it threatens Jaha more, and Emori instruct the group to turn and leave.

Murphy’s words are true, he has never felt loyalty to any group he’s travelled and survived with. But perhaps here, in the Dead Zone, with the girl who would slit his throat and kill a part of herself rather than waste away due to dehydration and starvation, he can find something better.

**Author's Note:**

> Happy holidays, everyone! This is the first day of what I'm calling "Ficmas", which is going to end up being 12 brand new one shots for y'all to enjoy (3/day, one for each of my major fandoms each day from the 20th to the 24th)
> 
> I wrote this as a headcanon thing that was a few hundred words long a while back (and had a sadder end), but I love this idea and think it works beautifully for them. Just don’t think about the fact that, after the initial rush wear off, Murphy will still spend nights terrified of Emori, because he wakes up to her talking to her brother in Trigedasleng. Yeah, just imagine they live happily ever after.
> 
> [Etra](http://coldsaturn.tumblr.com) is the best editor on the planet and I love her so much for editing all these for me!
> 
> Come spend the holidays with me [on tumblr!](http://jonnmurphy.tumblr.com) And thank in advance for reading/commenting/leaving kudos <3


End file.
